Prologue
July 13, 1828
Is crime inthe city rising along with the temperature this summer?Another murdered woman was found in the alley not far from where she worked.Lucy Stone was murdered Saturday in the early morning hours after leaving her job at the Queen’s Head on Bow Street.According to a source, bruises around her throat indicated she was strangled to death.This reporter would like to know why this alarming pattern of attacks on young women has grown in the past months.Is it the heat that is increasing tempers or is there a killer on the loose?
He smoothed his finger over the words on the page of thePiccadilly Pressas he read through the short article again.His escapades were making the papers.Gaining notoriety.He smiled.Lucy, what a fine name for such a pretty girl.Her cornflower blue eyes had bulged in her pale face as he squeezed the air from her delicate windpipe.She had barely struggled at all.Frozen with fear at his first blow to her cheek.He sighed.He liked it better when they fought back.He set the paper aside and picked up theMorning Post.Taking a bite from his toast, he perused the headlines, looking for a mention of his kill.
Perhaps tonight after dinner at his club, he would go over to the Termage and play cards there.He was so tired of the same old places and the same boring people.It had been almost a year since he had played at the Termage, and next door to it was the Birdcage, a brothel where one could play rough for a price.He would just need to keep his beast in check.Yes, some dinner, cards, and a good fuck were just what he needed to break through his doldrums.He took a sip of tea and flipped the page of newsprint.Now, let’s see if anyone else was crowing about his exploits.
Chapter One
Warm summer rainpoured outside his bedroom window.Matthew tied his dark blue cravat with practiced and efficient movements as he stared out at the wet street below.Not ideal weather for guests arriving in costume to the Blue Angel this evening.Thank God he’d listened to Val, and they had put up a large awning leading from the street to the front door.The former sailor turned club security chief had near-perfect intuition when it came to rain.
Matthew turned from the rain-splattered view to cross to his dressing table and fetch his cuff links.Didn’t matter, guests would come.No one missed his bacchanal.The masquerade, in its third year, was already the summer’s most sought-after event.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.“Come in,” he called out.
“Evening, boss.”Ben crossed into the room.He carried a small tray that held a tumbler with two fingers of whiskey.“Gotcha your evening drink here.”
“Thank you, Ben.”Matthew took a sip, letting the pleasant burn of the fine Scottish whiskey slide down his throat.This would be his only drink of the night.A tradition to allow himself a small pleasure before work.“How are the girls?Everything ready for the show?”
Ben rolled his eyes.“Fanny was bitchin’ about her spot as usual, but generally, everything looks good.Rob says everything on the floor is ready.Val’s got two additional youngins helping behind the bar tonight.”
Ben, or Big Ben, as everyone in the club called him, had a unique position at the Blue Angel.He was part butler, part mother hen.Matthew was thankful that Ben handled all the behind-the-scenes drama.He supervised the kitchen staff, the maids who came in each morning to clean, and watched over the dancing girls in the show.He was one of four staff managers that Matthew relied on to keep the Blue Angel running in top shape.
“Tell Fanny she can leave the show anytime if she is so disappointed to be on the line.”Matthew’s lips twitched at Ben’s loud snort of laughter.“I’ll find another girl like her in a snap of the fingers.”
“She knows this is the best job in town.She’s just a complainer, that one.Maybe you can go down and give the girls one of yer famous smiles.Cheer ’em up.”Ben pulled a folded newspaper from the pocket of his jacket.“Today’sPiccadilly Pressmentioned the Angel.Yer not going to like it, though.”
Matthew snatched up the outstretched paper.This damn rag had been writing a series of articles they calledVice and Crime in the City.At first, he had been impressed at the knowledge the writer had of some of the inner workings of gangs in London.Then, the man had turned his focus on high-end brothels with a clear rub for those most frequented by toffs, and Matthew had laughed at the writer’s naivety.The bias had been an obvious pander to the Press’s audience.Matthew looked down at today’s headline,Lives Ruined Every Night at the Gaming Tables.Bloody hell.He skimmed the article, looking for any mention of the Blue Angel, finding it several paragraphs deep.
One of the many gaming hells on the east side, the Blue Angel seems to cater to the working man, enticing their patrons to lose their wages at the tables.The promise of these types of places is that within their walls lay the path to easy money when, in fact, the path more often leads to ruin.Preying on the hardworking man to turn a profit is not illegal, but perhaps should be deemed a crime.
What sentimental tripe was this shit?He didn’t force anyone to gamble away their money.Men were sentient creatures that did whatever they wanted.If they didn’t gamble away their money at his place, it would be at one of his competitors.He threw the paper down on the side table and took a long draught from his whiskey.What this reporter didn’t seem to understand was that people were inherently bad, sinful creatures.There would always be places to market to the vices that fed the masses.
“It’s fine.”Matthew waved a hand, dismissing the article.“Annoying, but the reporter clearly has no clue the truth of human nature.As far as the girls, I will put in an appearance when I do my rounds.I want to check on Stella anyway.”He trusted Ben to know what was needed.And if he needed to be charming and give the girls a talk, then he would.The show must be flawless tonight.
It was the biggest party of the year and his favorite because many of the aristocrats were out of London at their country houses, leaving his place free of their snooty demands and endless whining when they lost to the house.Money was money, Seaton always said.Personally, Matthew preferred the “working man” to a bloody toff any day.But, as a businessman, he knew attracting a higher-class clientele could be beneficial, because Lord knew the toffs loved to waste their money.Luckily, Matthew’s floor manager, Rob Morrow, was smooth as honey, never getting his temper ruffled by petulant young lordlings.
“And the awning is holding up under this downpour?”he asked.
“Yes, boss.”Ben picked up the cufflinks from the table and, taking Matthew’s left arm, began to fasten his sleeve.Matthew swallowed the last of his whiskey, set down the glass, and held out his other hand for Ben to fuss with the cufflink.He knew from experience that shooing Ben away would only hurt the man’s feelings.Ben took care of his people and that was that.
Ben’s tall stature and broad, muscled frame had won him his nickname.He had been a boxer for a decade, and that’s how Matthew met and became friends with the man.The gentle giant had been desperate to get out of the fighting ring.When Matthew opened the club five years ago, he had offered Ben a job and won the man’s loyalty for life.Not that he minded the mother hen thing…too much.Matthew valued loyalty in his friends over everything else.A man was nobody without the loyalty of his friends.
They headed down the back stairs, stopping at the large arched window that overlooked the main gaming room.Matthew assessed the floor.Along one wall, the long carved wooden bar gleamed with fresh polish.He and his business partner, Rhys Seaton, had built it themselves, their first project when setting up the gaming club.A massive hazard table sat at the center of the room.Above it hung a crystal chandelier, dust-free and sparkling in the candlelight.A sea of dice and cribbage tables dotted the rest of the space, ready for tonight’s crowd of revelers.Matthew nodded his approval and continued down to the ground level.
He and Ben made their way to the main room and walked through the club to check that everything was perfect.Beyond the main gaming area, along the back of the house, were smaller rooms for different types of play—piquet, cribbage, loo, faro, whist, and passe-dix.Some of the rooms were for deeper play, with minimum bids to join in.Some rooms could be rented for the evening to play with a private party.He was pleased to see everything clean and ready.
At last, they backtracked to the front of the house and up the curved staircase to the theater.Tucked at the rear of the club, he’d converted the manse’s old main drawing room into an intimate theater space.Long tables faced an elevated stage draped with lush, blue velvet curtains.The dancing girls were on stage in costume, practicing steps or just chatting amongst themselves.Mrs.Langley, his theater manager, was on her knees, sewing the hem of one girl’s costume.The smoke of the kerosine lights that rimmed the edge of the stage and the equally potent smell of greasepaint the performers used to paint their faces pale white with bright rouge spots on their cheeks and lips all settled into his chest and made him smile with its familiarity.
“Ladies, you all look lovely as ever,” he called out as he climbed the four steps to the stage.“Are you excited for tonight’s show?”
“Oh yes.”
“We have been practicing all week.”
“The new costumes are beautiful.”
